DISCLAIMER: Star Trek Voyager and all who sail in her belong to Paramount/Viacom and no infringement of copyright/trade marks is intended.
WARNING: It's dark and depressive. Who's not in the mood for this or can't take it - stay away.

Day of Honour
By KyaniteD

You stop.

You have to steady yourself and take a deep breath.

You are weak.



You. Are. Dying.

It feels strange.

To know you will die.

Of course, eventually, life ends.

But you are surprised that it has to be so soon.

You had more than they once thought you would have.

More than you thought you would have.

But still it is not enough.

Every single day you have, you have more, and still it's not enough.

You are being pathetic.

You are klingon. Klingons welcome death. They do not whine about it.

But then, *are* you klingon?

No. If you were, you would not have to die.

You think this is ironic.

What made your life miserable, makes your death miserable.

There is no honour in dying in a bed.

And there is no honour in suicide.

This is your only chance at honour.
At last.
One day in your life.
The last.

What made you the outsider all your life is now killing your other, human, half.

Your body kills itself. Is that not suicide as well?

The origin of your strength, your bodies ability to recover from the worst wounds, your stamina, your temper - your klingon genes. They kill you now.

No. Not now. All your life. They fed on your human genes. The fast and frequent cell regeneration literally devoured the much shorter human telomers.

You are degenerating.

Your systems are preparing for the final shut down.

And there's nothing you can do.

You are an engineer. Not a doctor.

The doctor.
He does not know.

You kept deleting the med files ever since he told you that he had no cure.

That there was no cure. Never would be.

How does one cure aging?

You are thirty-two. And you are about to die of age.

Your biological timer is ringing. Your time is up.

And it is too soon.

The stars are out tonight.
They are every night.
It is always night. Forever, out here.

A thick plate of transparent aluminium is all that separates you from infinity. From eternity.

All these stars. Galaxies. All the places you will never see.

All the things you have never done.

You light a candle. And another. And a third.

The warm yellowish glow reveals more candles.

Your hands start to shake and you clench them into fists, willing them to be still now. Before they are still forever.

With a trembling hand you light them all. And then you return to the window.

The flickering flames reflect on the glass and it seems as if the universe comes to life.

Beautiful, you think. And you let the warm glow engulf you and consume you.

You are so pathetic.

Beautiful grazes your mind again, but this time the picture is completely different.
You feel snow cones running down your spine. You shudder.
And then your skin starts to burn.
It's creeping into your heart, into your eyes and you start to cry.

You never told her.
You never told her what she makes you feel.
You never told her about your love for her.

You knew you would have to die. It would have been selfish.
It would have been without honour.


It was unfair.
You loved her.

You have given up. Still, you are alive. And still, you love.

You take the cloak and throw it over your shoulders. The purple of the fabric turns into red, bloody red, in the light of the candles. Purpose, you think.

You are alive to do what has to be done. The last act will be an act of love.

Love for all of them.
Love for her.

You close your teary eyes. And you take a deep breath. It hurts and you have to concentrate on taking the next one.

This life becomes pain.
You have to concentrate on mere living.
With every day you are less of an engineer and more of a pretender.
Pretending to survive.
Survive what?

The battle is over.

You will end it. Here.

Before someone notices.

For they don't know.

They would know if you fell apart before their eyes.

You know they would try too keep you alive.

They would never understand.
There might be a possibility for dignity
but none for honour
in the life you would have.
The live they would give to you.
Graciously offering existence.

You do not want to be a burden.

You love them and you will honour them.

Someone should be here and honour you.

But they would not understand. They would not let you.

You have to get it yourself.
You see the dull black box, reflecting no light.

There is no turning back now.

The candles are lit, the spirits are called.

You open the lid to behold the blade.
The blade that a confidant should give to you and take from you.

There is no confidant.

There is no blade.

On the black velvet lies a dried single red rose.

You think of Tom and how he must have known all these years.

But the images before your mind's eye are none of Tom.

A light touch on your shoulders startles you and your body jerks up, only to be held down with a tight squeeze.

The grip loosens when your body relaxes into the contact.

The warmth that surrounds you is different from what you felt before.

"Don't." You hear a low steady voice.

You remember to exhale and "Seven?" is the word your breath carries.


To Have And To Hold

I need to be cleansed
It's time to make amends
For all of the fun
The damage is done
And I feel diseased
I'm down on my knees
And I need forgiveness
Someone to bear witness
To the goodness within
Beneath the sin
Although I may flirt
With all kinds of dirt
To the point of disease
Now I want release
From all this decay
Take it away
And somewhere
There's someone who cares
With a heart of gold
To have and to hold

1987 Martin Lee Gore - Depeche Mode

The End

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